The privacy partition of the Rolls Royce was up, sealing them in a cocoon of silence, but for Damien, the noise hadn't stopped.
It was a phantom sound—a high-pitched, drilling whine that bored into his temples. It didn't matter that they had only been inside the museum for twenty minutes. The gala's "Starfall" theme—thousands of fiber-optic lights pulsing against midnight velvet—had been a direct assault on his sensory processing.
He sat rigidly in the leather seat, his eyes closed, his hand gripping the armrest so hard the leather creaked. The "Demon King" mask he had worn so effortlessly for the cameras had shattered the moment the car doors closed.
"Damien?" Aria whispered.
She didn't touch him. She knew better. When he was like this—when the overload was peaking—touch could feel like a burn.
"Don't," he rasped, not opening his eyes. "Just... wait."
"I'm not touching you," Aria said softly, shifting closer without making contact. "But I'm here. Breathe with me."
